


Pride

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos thinks on his father. (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr with the prompt, "Porthos being emotional over using tréville's sword during wartime"

He keeps Belgard’s pistol. He hadn’t necessarily meant to at first. At first, it was merely taking it away from Belgard, disarming him, eventually dismantling the weapon for parts and coin. He’d taken it from that manor he knew he’d never visit again, holstered it with his horse. Hadn’t thought about it for several weeks. Everything happened so fast, it was expected he should forget about his father – that he should have no time to think about or process it all before they were swept up in Rochefort’s plots, in protecting the queen, in saying goodbye to Aramis, in going to war—

When he finds the pistol again, it takes him by surprise. He spends a good evening studying its intricate designs, the weaving of vines and lines not dissimilar to Aramis’ own favored design, back when he – well. There are creatures on this design, though, inlaid with metal and silver, intricate and expensive. He could get a hefty sum for selling it. 

Something stills his hand, though. In the end, he holsters it at his side and can’t speak to the reason why. The only person who could recognize it is now war minister, far away from the front lines. There is no one around to ask him why he should carry it. 

Belgard is not his father, truly. He is nothing to him. The pistol at his side does not give him joy, or reverence, or any distinct feeling other than a weighty bitterness, a failed connection to the life he could have had, if the man who should be his father was a different man altogether. But thinking of the man Belgard is, thinking of how expected it’d be for Porthos to be like him, too, in the right circumstances—

He shouldn’t be thinking about this.

Instead, the pistol at his side only reminds him, yet again, that he’s only ever had himself to rely on. He has his brothers now. He has his home. He knows that. He knows that he earned his place amongst the musketeers on his own merit, not any sense of pity or burden. And yet some days, on his worst days, when he’s alone and unsure and can’t express it to anyone because he’s missed the window in which he can talk about it – on those days, he doubts. He wonders. He drags his thumb along the inlaid curls of silver and animals on the pistol’s barrel and he fears a man he might one day become. 

He does not favor the pistol, though. He favors the sword, strapped to his other side, easily retrieved and worn. The handle is pliant leather wrapped around above the guard, the blade a little dulled in places and in need of Porthos’ whetstone. But it is not the serviceability of the sword that disturbs him. Nothing about this sword can disturb him. 

This, then, is the weapon he can prefer. He lacks Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s particular flair, sure, but he is better at it than the pistol. The pistol was always favored by—

But best not to think about him now. 

The sword, though, is the gift from his _father._ He’s never said it in so many words, doesn’t want to think of Treville’s reaction to the sentiment. Porthos has never had a father. Belgard certainly is no father to him, certainly could never be anything but a dark connection to a past he lost, a great injustice that such a man should live when his mother – good and kind and strong – should have withered away in misery, burdened by taking care of her son. (Do not think of that, he tries to tell himself, do not wonder if she would be alive today if she were without you. He knows, he does know. He knows her enough to know that would never even be a choice, a consideration.) But Belgard is not his father.

He isn’t sure what a father is meant to be, really. He’s never had the thought, never had the experience. The only person he knows who might know – well. Aramis can hardly give anything but a pained memory to a lost child, a recent wound to a child who can never be his. He remembers the advice he gave to Aramis on the staircase, the jagged proof that he must walk away. Advice he never thought he could ever give, much less to Aramis. 

If he knows what a father is, then, he thinks Treville is as close as he can get. The sword in his hand is a promise of that, a legacy he can carry. Porthos has no delusions of the man he might become, or the man he is now – imperfect in his own ways, burdened by the things he doesn’t say, in constant fear of losing the things he loves. But this, at least, is a promise of that connection. Wherever he is, he carries it with him. It’s his. It was given to him and only him. 

And he’ll carry it into battle with pride.


End file.
